


Always a Bridesmaid Never a Bride

by Oshun



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is not a crack fic! It is based upon a mystery element within my short story <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/217025">No Justice to Yourself</a>. It stands alone, but it contains the revelation of Erestor's old boyfriend who had recently dumped him in that story. While it is a prequel of sorts to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/217025">No Justice to Yourself</a>, one does not need to read that story to understand this one.</p><p>Ignoble Bard did even more than he usual does in his Beta of this story. He forced me to write an ending when I just wanted to stop. Thank you very much, my dear friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always a Bridesmaid Never a Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Keiliss! Outright theft from Keiliss is this concept which she uses in different words first in her novel _Even Quicker than Doubt_ : "They had all been forbidden by Ereinion to ever use the expression ‘Balrog slayer,’ which he believed objectified the man and belittled great sacrifice."

Elrond, Erestor and Glorfindel had set off to travel from Imladris to Mithlond a couple of weeks earlier. Elrond, a nervous mixture of impatience and sorrow, had tried to hide his agitation by remaining quiet and withdrawn. His companions had respected his reflective disposition; although doing so had dampened their own moods considerably. Erestor and Glorfindel's mercurial relationship required their usual banter and spirited arguments to release a buildup of pressure, those things and making love. It would have nearly been impossible--the mere thought unappealing--to attempt intimate relations on a bedroll, on the damp ground, alongside a craggy mountain road, huddled for warmth near a weak fire, less than an arm’s breadth away from the pensive Elrond.

Erestor’s thoughts over those long days on horseback had been constantly drawn back to Valinor as he remembered it. He grasped at fleeting images, but failed to latch onto a new picture of his native land to replace the one of his childhood and youth. It certainly would not resemble those nightmare days of darkness and smoky torchlight that had preceded the great exodus. He found it impossible to imagine a Valinor that did not shimmer under the golden glitter of Laurelin or the silvery glow of Telperion. The most welcome and glorious sunshine or moonlight and starry skies paled in comparison to his memory of the light of the Trees, at least in his sentimental interior vision that played against the back of his eyelids during that trip to the Havens.

The patches of fog and scent and taste of salt on the air indicated to Erestor that they had less than a day’s journey left. But it was far too many hours not to stop for the night. Early that evening their party had finally spotted a tumbledown wayside inn, the first they had seen in days. They could smell meat roasting and see smoke wafting from a matched set of three tall chimneys. Many of such places had already begun to receive new coats of paint and other much needed repairs with the economic revival and increase in travel of that first year of the reign of Elessar. That sorry excuse for a hostel, however, appeared to have yet received an influx of either hope or coin. Once large and elegant, it was now a rat trap, half of it boarded up. Nonetheless, basic as the accommodations had been, Glorfindel and Erestor had managed at last to secure a room of their own.

It was after they had made love twice, once desperately, as would be expected following several days of abstinence, and the second time paying full attention to the nuances known only to long-time, compatible lovers, when Glorfindel ripped Erestor’s heart out.

“I cannot tell you what it has meant to me to have had your companionship throughout this last period,” Glorfindel continued. Erestor could barely follow the sense of the words so horrified he was. “I know I didn’t deserve you. But, by all the Valar, I did appreciate you.” Glorfindel’s lower lip quivered while his eyes clouded with unshed tears--incomparable Eldarin warrior and such a bloody, treacherous sissy.

“Well, I’ll be fucked! I suppose I should only wonder how long you have wanted to give me the boot!”

“The boot?” Glorfindel asked, his voice husky with emotion and with just the faintest accent of Quenya as spoken in Gondolin bleeding through. Lifting his chin, his bright blue eyes grew wide with hurt and puzzlement. Erestor had not heard him fall into that once so familiar accent in an Age at least. When Erestor first met Glorfindel in Lindon the accent had been strong, already archaic, charming, and reinforcing of the mystique of the reincarnated hero of another time, another place. On the other hand, Erestor had never lost or softened his own strong accent of Tirion, nor the lisping of his initial S’es that he had adopted in Maedhros’ inner circle during the First Age. He hung onto both of those affectations in defiance of any who thought he ought to want to forget his dubious past. Everything he had done, he had done with conviction.

Beautiful golden Laurëfindel. Of course, Ereinion had fallen in love with him. No one could deny the appeal of his compelling good looks. And Gil-galad always did like a pretty face. Erestor had considered his own estrangement from the King temporary at the time, while harboring the conviction that they would end up together again soon. Then suddenly, out of the sea, Glorfindel emerged, not dripping seaweed, but his becoming modesty, coupled with an unusual intelligence and enviable high birth. Add to that his native gallantry, which meant that Laurëfindel, unlike pushy Erestor, would never conceive of asking the King for more than he could comfortably offer.

They had all been forbidden by Ereinion to ever use the expression ‘Balrog slayer,’ which he believed objectified the man and belittled great sacrifice. But that was how Erestor had thought of him—perfect, seasoned warrior and Balrog slayer, over-sung hero, with his aura of the elegance of a bygone period. Nevertheless, despite his initial resentment, he and Glorfindel had become friends in Lindon, until both of them moved on.

Erestor and Glorfindel did not draw closer again until more than an Age later, after each, independently and in their own way, had mourned the loss of Ereinion. Erestor thought if he had known what was good for him—but, of course, he never did know that until it was far too late—he would have insisted that they remain only friends after his first drink-sodden encounter with Glorfindel following one of the twins’ more raucous begetting day feasts in Imladris.

“What do you mean the boot?” Glorfindel sounded honestly mystified, but growing irritated.

“Do you want an etymological break down of the word itself or an explanation of the expression? Really! I heard it in Tirion growing up. Surely you did also. Of course not, you were raised in more refined circumstances. Perhaps it came from ‘apply boot to the seat of pants and kick him out the door,’ or better still, ‘yank him out of bed, escort him graciously to the door, and throw his boots out after him?’ Your guess is as good as mine.”

“With that tone, you go a long way toward making this much easier,” Glorfindel snarled. “Knowing you, that is probably entirely deliberate. You want to make this so unpleasant that you can feel justified at being angry with me and not allow either of us to feel a sense of loss.” His lower lip still protruded in a characteristic pout—one which under different circumstances Erestor would have bitten and sucked into his mouth.

“You pitiful thing,” said Erestor. “Your suffering is breaking my heart.”

But the timbre of Glorfindel’s voice at last had turned acerbic. “I never made any promises to you, Erestor.” He took a deep breath. Erestor recognized the signs that he was only beginning to get wound up. “We talked about this exact manner of circumstance the very first time we were together.”

“You are right. We might have been blind drunk and falling all over one another to get naked as fast as we could, but I do remember you asserting that the encounter ought to be for one night only. My fault entirely that I got a bit hopeful after a few hundred years of sharing housing and a bed. And then, by a few hundred more, I had become downright complacent.”

Glorfindel’s face fell and softened into an infuriating look of pity and solicitude. “I am so sorry. I never wanted to be a brute to you,” he whispered. “After we started making our serious plans to leave, I began thinking about Ecthelion. Then, over the last few months, I began dreaming of him and, finally, thinking the dreams might portend something, that he may be waiting for me.”

“We just made love! And it was lovely.” Erestor choked on the words, wishing he could manage to sound angrier and less pathetic.

Glorfindel cupped Erestor’s face. “Of course, we did. And, of course, it was lovely. You’re all but irresistible. You know that. Your eyes.” He reached up to brush a heavy hank of hair off Erestor’s forehead. “This hair. Your incredible skin. Everyone agrees you are breathtaking. And no one makes love like you, with such wantonness and commitment to the act. It has been an honor and a lasting delight to have been allowed to share . . . ”

“Please stop before you make me sick! I could make you a list.”

“A list?”

“A list of the people I’ve loved who found me utterly and completely resistible. You are at the top at the moment, simply because you are the most recent. I think I actually loved Gil-galad more.”

“Ereinion? I had no idea.”

“No. And why would you have? I never told you. He certainly never would have mentioned it. It’s not fair for me to resent you over that. It was all but over between us before you even arrived. It is my fault that I never learned how to settle for the role of the secret love of the last High King of the Noldor. What was I thinking I could be to him? Queen consort? I know. I’m ridiculous. I was young for my age.” He thought to himself that he had also been stubborn, irresponsible, still exuding the insolent arrogance characteristic of the staunchest of the followers of Maedhros. They had believed in the nobility of their loyalty to their beloved lord in defeat after horrific defeat. “I do not see now how I could have ever dreamed he would give up the responsibilities of governance for his hot little Noldorin rebel on the side.”

“Stop it! I hate to hear your self-deprecation. I cannot help it that I never stopped loving Ecthelion. I never hid that from you.”

“No, you did not. You were always extremely nice to me, kind, affectionate, generous, thoughtful in the small things. Lucky fellow that Ecthelion.”

“Don’t! You will find someone who can appreciate you. Everyone envied me in Rivendell. Even Celebrian thought I was not good enough for you.”

Hogwash, Erestor thought. She had warned him that Glorfindel would break his heart. How had she put it? She’d said that Glorfindel was one of those rare people who only loved one person. Erestor believed he also could have been someone who loved once and once alone, if only he could have found the one who would love him in return.

“Look, Laurefin, I think you had better go downstairs and see if there is another room available. Otherwise, I am sure Elrond can let you sleep on the settee in his dressing room.”

Erestor refused to look at Glorfindel again, or answer him, even after he called his name several times. When he finally heard the door shut he looked up. Tomorrow they would sail for Aman. Worse things had happened in his experience--the destruction of the Trees, the Burning of the Ships at Losgar. Alqualondë, he could not forget Alqualondë, or Doriath, or the Havens of Sirion. For sheer horror, heart-shattering disappointment, and soul-searing grief and loss, nothing could compare to the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. And he was not even dead, just little bit more broken than before and on his way to Aman. People went to Aman looking for healing. Not that he was that sort of person. But he was a survivor.


End file.
